


something to you

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, No Dialogue, POV Second Person, idek just leave me here in murphamy hell with my lonely gay tears, its vaguely an au?? but also not?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:26:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6098848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it feels like you've always loved him, even if that's impossible. a lot of things about him feel impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something to you

**Author's Note:**

> i literally found this on my laptop 10 minutes ago yolo richard is bald. also just fyi i wrote this a while before the whole mess with bellamy happened in canon.

You are scared of love. Always have been. You try to find synonyms for it, other words, rougher words. But it's love that frightens you more than anything, because love and loss both start with  _L_ and end with pain and anger and broken things, whether it's dark shards of glass or fraying red rope.

Your mouth can no longer form the words  _I love you_ , so you say other things—barbed things, crimson things. You choke on your own poison as it dribbles past your lips, and for a second you wish you could turn it to honey. But you are no miracle worker. You are just a boy who fell in love.

And you regret so much because you care so much and you fuck up so much. You fuck up and you fuck up and you fuck up and the lesson beats your heart bloody, picks at the scabs on your knees and claws at your neck, but you never ever learn. You fell in love and you will never fall out of it because you're so scared the landing's going to hurt more the second time.

You're a taped-up boy with cracked skin and a melted heart, and you would be glad there will never be another him, because then you'd know that no one else can ever hurt you the way he does, but  _there will never be another him_.

He is everything you could never hope to be, and you  _like_ it that way. You'd never deserve him and you don't want to imagine for a second that you do.

But  _God_. You have never kissed him and he has never kissed you, and it's something you want like you've never wanted anything else. Some nights you can forget, but other nights (most nights) you put alcohol to your lips and pretend that it tastes like his mouth would—sweet, sharp, twisted, bitter. All the heat, sorrow, and potency with the same sweeping, clenching stomach and foggy head.

(You have never found him at the bottom of a bottle, and part of you knows you never will, but you keep searching.)

Your mind is filled with words, your pockets lined with phantom scraps of poetry. But your silent songs don't have lyrics, because sometimes when you touch the ghost keys of the piano you don't know how to play you imagine you're touching him and no word can ever begin to describe that feeling.

You can find no letters that match your heartsong. You've tried, though. You've listed so many words beside his name, each crossed out with a single furious line. He will always be something to you. (Maybe you won't ever figure it out, and it'll drive you insane. But he's always had that effect on you.)

If you had your parents to talk to, they might laugh at your heartache, soothe it. (But how would you know? One parent is buried in the dirt and the other is buried in grief, which starts to smell a lot like stolen whiskey in the end.) If you had friends—

But that's wishful thinking, isn't it.

There is no one but him, because when they see your bloody knuckles, they see a boy who loves a blood sport. When they see your black eyes and scraped cheeks, they see a boy who doesn't know when to stop. When they see your pale skin, they see a boy who chooses the darkness and the cold, but you want to scream at them, over and over till your stretched-out throat rubs raw:

You did not ask to fall in love.

* * *

 

(Oh, boy. You never learn.)


End file.
